Masks and Mirrors
by Andraste
Summary: After the events of 'The Ugly Truth', Zhaan mourns for Stark.


**Disclaimer:** I do not own Stark and Zhaan. No money being made out of writing about them.  
  
**Continuity:** Between _The Ugly Truth_ and _Liars, Guns and Money_.  
  
**Author's Note:** Written for AstroGirl.  
  
**Masks and Mirrors  
**  
By Andraste  
  
_Love takes off masks that we fear we cannot live without and know we cannot live within.  
  
- James A. Baldwin_.  
  
When she first lifted the mask away from Stark's face, Zhaan had been surprised to find it cool to the touch. It seemed incredible that the light that flowed out from him did not produce tangible warmth to match the warmth it created within her. Now, it feels not merely cool, but cold. Dead.   
She holds it up against her face and examines the resulting effect in the mirror. Ill-fitting, but perhaps no more so than the one she wears under her skin. Her reflection looks back at her, calm and blank, displaying nothing of what she feels. For now, she has run out of tears.  
  
Something Stark wore for so long should have some imprint of him upon it, but tracing its shape with her fingers feels nothing like touching him, or even like touching the mask when it lay on his face. She stroked its contours often during their days together, for he would remove it for her only briefly. He was frightened of the energy it released, of the difficulty involved in holding himself together without it.  
  
After they made love, he liked to put his clothes back on, as well. It had nothing to do with nudity taboos – members of those species who were capable of sharing minds rarely had a problem with displaying their bodies. Her nakedness had not bothered him even before they had shared Unity. No, the clothes were part of being prepared for Scorpius. Zhaan knew that at any moment Stark wished to be ready. To run, to fight, even to die. Anything rather than face capture again.  
  
She had been meditating when Stark arrived back on the ship, and had not seen his reaction when Crichton informed him of their continuing flight from the Peacekeepers. When she had tried to speak to him about it later, he had simply told her that it was a dangerous universe, and changed the subject to more pleasant things. It had still worried her. Zhaan knew that he would do anything to avoid going back to what he had been, huddled in a prison cell playing at madness that had eventually come all too naturally.  
  
Another part of his constant preparation had been his way of sleeping, as lightly as soft rain. Zhaan had learned the hard way that the slightest touch while he slept would wake and frighten him, and after the first time she had spend the handful of nights they had together simply watching Stark instead. She resisted the temptation to seek more physical contact, telling herself that the psychic union they shared was far more intimate. She believed that she had accepted the restriction, but now she feels angry at being deprived of even a single embrace.  
  
She removes the mask, sets it down on the stand that held her prayer mask before John broke it, and pushes the anger away. The Seek taught her that rage was unproductive. It would do her no good to be angry at Talyn. Angry at the others, for not telling a story that would save them all. Angry at Stark, for not keeping his head while they tried to deal with Crais. Angry that she was only good at lying about herself.  
  
Useless, but tempting, just like hope. She had tried so hard not to hope for anything with Stark, knowing that what they had was terribly fragile in a dangerous and uncertain universe, too easily strained by their own fragility. She had tried not to cling, not to lean on a man who could hardly hold up his own weight. But it had been so very, very long since she had someone to lean on like that. She watched his tenderness, with Gilena, with Aeryn, and she had wanted it for herself.  
  
The first time he removed his mask for her, the first time they made love, her own tears surprised her. She had not realized until then that the light inside him would remind her so painfully, and so joyfully, of Bitaal. As she looked further and deeper, Zhaan also saw a darkness that reminded her of herself. His strength and weakness were twined around each other in such complicated loops and knots that she had not been able to disentangle them, much as she had tried to see only what was good and sane in him.  
  
"Zhaan?"  
  
Crichton's voice at her door is soft, almost reverent. He must have known she did not wish to be disturbed; she had switched off her communicator.  
  
When she does not answer, he continues. "I know you don't want to talk to anyone right now, but D'Argo – he wants to get going, go to this slave auction looking for his son. We could use your input."  
  
"Do as the others wish. I do not care." Her voice is harsh in her own ears, and Crichton looks chagrined.  
  
"Stark brought us that information for a reason," he says. "Thousands of his own people are up for sale as well. I just – I'd hate to think he came back here for nothing."  
  
She wants to scream at him, reach out with her mind and rip him to pieces. He doesn't know anything about why Stark came back, he doesn't know anything about futility and the sale of souls. For a moment, he seems to read her feelings somehow, and she watches fear bloom in his face … and in that instant regrets causing it. "I am sorry – I will come. Give me another moment to prepare."  
  
Crichton nods and leaves, and she examines her reflection one more time. The grief and anger have left no visible marks; she is as ready to deal with the others as she possibly can be. Easy as it would be to assign blame – to them, or to herself – she knows that Stark would not have wanted her to greet his death with anger. She finds that it is not what she wants, either.  
  
In the end, Zhaan would also die rather than remove her mask.  
  
**The End**


End file.
